


Montage

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: 200 words, But Mostly Plot, Drabble, Experimental, Flash Fiction, M/M, Porn With Plot, What Did You Expect, challenge, downer ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men, two intertwined lives, one montage of their journey. Twenty-one drabbles, 200 words each, influenced and themed around every music video they've made (except for Stripped). An exercise in flash fiction. More warnings inside. Till/Richard. Continuous updating promised whenever a new Rammstein video comes out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Montage

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> **Warnings:** Till/Richard, sexual content, angst, dark humour. Contents of each drabble vary. Narrative voices vary from third person to first person (Till) or first person (Richard). Although they are not exact adaptations of music videos and the influence is not always clear, there are possible spoilers. Does not follow chronology of videos/songs IRL. Has some references of other fics of mine but reading them not necessary.

**Montage - A Rammstein Collection (Updated Apr 2013)**  
  
\----------------------  
  
 **Engel**  
  
It’s hot. The slick-haired young guitarist whistles into the mic. A woman with her snake tosses whiskey on a patron, forcing him to lick her feet.   
  
His gaze focuses on a well-dressed, quiet man. His eyes are a beautiful green. Richard’s heart skips a beat as the band finishes; the man’s gotten up to approach him.  
  
“I’ve seen you almost every night. You play well.”  
  
“ _Danke_.”  
  
“How old are you, kid?”  
  
“Personal information comes at the price of a drink. Spezi. _Bitte_.”  
  
"You got me.”  
  
He disappears and for a moment Richard thinks he won’t come back. But soon enough he does, with a glass in hand. “So, what's your name?"  
  
"Richard."  
  
" _The_ Richard?"  
  
"You know another super-sexy Richard drinking Spezi in this bar?"  
  
" _Nein_. Though that's an impressive ego on you."  
  
"Pfft. Impressive is my middle name."  
  
"Is it, now?"  
  
"You bet. My full name is Richard Zven, the Impressive Kruspe. Bay-beh."  
  
"Your last name is ‘Baybeh’?"  
  
"No, it's Kruspe. Weren't you listening?" the man snickers. "and _your_ name?"  
  
"Till Lindemann," the lights change, illuminating his smile in soulful blue. "pleased to meet you."  
  
The woman slithers alongside her snake. The caged child smiles. The beginning of something excellent.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Benzin**  
  
Over the following months and years they get to know each other better. Richard is four years Till’s junior and plays guitar. Till can play bass and drums, though he’s a basket-weaver by day, and they play little gigs together in various bands.  
  
Richard wants a bit more though. Till is quiet, but there’s a fire within him that he has never seen in anyone else before. It shows in his eyes, his soul, his speech – his voice.  
  
Oh, for that voice. When God crafted Till, he must have gifted his vocal chords with the warmth and passion of liquid fire. And he wants that. They’re going to form a new band soon and that is the voice they need.  
  
“I don’t know,” Till says, though, pausing and gazing at the mounds of baskets. “I don’t know…”  
  
"Come to Berlin with me. Join the band. Sing."  
  
He can't quite bring himself to answer; but when he finds that he's out of cigarettes, Richard immediately gives him the last one in his pack and even lights it up for him. If that's not dedication, he doesn't know what is; as he stares at the flickering flame he makes up his mind.   
  
\-----  
 **  
Du Riechst So Gut (1995)**  
  
Our first video has to make an impression. Show the world who Rammstein are.   
We want it simple. Only three different things are needed. Flowers. Ourselves. A Doberman. And we’re good to go.  
  
Except we’re not. Our bodies don’t show up well under lighting. So we’re handed bottles of oil and told to rub ourselves with it. Till’s the last one, and I’m set to do it.  
  
He relaxes beneath my hands; I’ve never realized how solidly built he is. Not a spare bit of fat on him, all smooth hard muscle. And maybe it’s just the flowers, they’re everywhere in this cramped studio at the moment and quite frankly it’s overpowering – but I suddenly feel nervous and giddy, having to swallow a few times to regain my composure. “ _Danke_ ,” Till says casually as he gets up and out of the room.   
  
But I feel…   
… _weird_ …  
  
But it’s a pleasant weirdness, I decide. Through the shoot I can't help but stare at Till's magnificent slick body, and keep thinking about the fact that I did that. His golden skin, taut muscles, his sheer bulk - almost an embodiment of the sun.  
  
I think I’d like to do this again sometime.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Du Hast  
**  
As I stand here in this room with my bandmates surrounding me I really have to wonder why I feel this way. Richard is next to me, saying “Till, if you’d like to hand me my mask… Till, the mask…” and I hand it over without looking at him. But once he thanks me and puts it on I turn my head, suddenly wondering when he gained the mature elegance of a man in his thirties instead of the boyishness that I once knew.  
  
And I can’t help staring at him because his lips are pink and soft and curved elegantly beneath the white mask, so much that I can barely concentrate on singing and I have to wonder if he knows I’m staring at him. With most of our faces hidden, there is no telling. He walks up to take his position next to mine and I feel a sudden stabbing longing in my heart and loins; how apt that these masks are called Cupid masks.   
  
_You.  
You have.  
You have me.  
_  
 _Ahh_ , I moan in both intense pain and fiery arousal. _Ahh, have mercy._  
But Eros has worked his spell on me and his jests are seldom merciful.  
  
\-----  
 **  
Mein Herz Brennt (Piano)**  
  
A dream about you.  
  
An after-performance party. Attended by only the two of us. We’re dressed in nothing but boxers. You smile at me - we clink glasses - then you stand up and walk into the pool, drifting on your back.   
  
"Sing something," I command. You do so, your soft tones ringing through the night air, a lullaby for the stars. Enchanted by your voice I blindly follow; it’s warm as your body is against mine when we have to share a hotel bed.  
  
You say you’ll sing until the day breaks.   
I hold and caress you and you don’t look as if you mind.  
Then my fingers brush over a long-since healed gash on your abdomen and I watch in terror as you bleed endlessly into the water, billowing out and surrounding your naked body as a dress would. And you’re still smiling as your lips tremble from the final note and your eyes slide shut for the last time-  
  
My eyes fly open. You’re snoring next to me. Then I look down at myself and realize that I’ve just had the most sensual and terrifying nocturnal emission of my life.  
  
Nothing is ever normal with you, Till.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Links 2, 3, 4**  
  
It’s hard being famous when you can’t have a date with a close friend ( _is_ it a date?) in a botanic garden without people staring at you. Especially if the stares are hostile. “I hate this,” Till grumbles as they sit by the shade, hidden from sight. “all those years - and they still think that we’re fascists! Do they ever listen?”  
  
Richard pats his shoulder. ( _Definitely_ a date.) “Till, don’t let them get to you. You’re always so wound up. Typical. You Ossie, you.”  
  
“What do you mean, ‘you Ossie, you’.”  
  
“Well… Till, you are one.”  
  
Till grins from ear to ear. “You racist little shit.”  
  
“Hey! All six of us are on the same boat, here!”  
  
But Till isn’t angry in the slightest. “No, it’s a perfectly valid observation,” he says, smiling, as he squints ahead. “we _are_ East Germans. The Wall came down only a few years back. But the stupidity never fails to amuse me, really, seeing as the East was _left-wing_. But no. Such is our woeful life. All because some idiot up there decided Germany was Germany.”  
  
“Geez. I’m sorry.”  
  
“No need, Richard, no need. Say, what’s up with all those ants?”  
  
“Beats me.”  
  
\-----  
  
 **Mutter  
**  
It steals my breath whenever I watch him swim, sunlight reflecting off his goggles and his long legs glistening in the water like silvery scales of fish. Water is Till’s element and he knows it well, constantly making his love of the sea known. He wrote me a song and called it ‘Sailor’, which tells you a lot.  
  
“We can pull it off with a single-person boat!”  
  
“Two-seater or nothing.”  
  
He’s unusually firm. Till is by himself for this video; but he’s refused a small rowing boat for a two-seater, the spot opposite him curiously empty. I wonder what he’s thinking.   
  
Times like this, I almost wish there were two Tills and two of me. Wouldn’t that be quite something! One Till could be soulful, the other aggressively sensual; one of me pensive, and the other a diva. Let’s face it, at our age, solitude – that _singularity_ – is depressing as hell. That makes me sad, that we can only be singular entities.  
  
He knows it too. But he takes the different approach; we can share our lonely existence. The empty spot in the boat is for that idea, that potential - an _invitation._  
  
And isn’t this just like our song?  
  
\-----  
 **  
Du Riechst So Gut (1998)**  
  
It starts as a game. Richard is putting lotion on his legs when Till holds up his silver high-heel.   
  
“Come get it.”  
  
So Richard goes for it with such speed that he knocks Till onto the floor; they roll about, laughing, before their lips accidently brush in the chaos. Eyes wide, prize dropping to the floor.   
  
But it feels right.   
Something clicks.  
  
The lotion is grabbed and suddenly Richard is riding Till, crying out and sloppily caressing his own erection beneath the dress. It’s not long before they collapse, disheveled, unsure what the hell just happened.  
  
“… Sorry… was my first time... with a guy…”  
  
“It wasn’t mine,” is the only thing Till can say. Richard looks at him shyly.   
  
“… Teach me?”   
  
It’s not a request; it’s a demand. So Till does, in privacy of his bed, later that night. He stays inside for a long time, Richard gasping softly and writhing beneath him, inhaling his scent. Marking the other’s skin with bruises, a map for later encounters.  
  
“Move for me,” Richard breathes. Till grasps him and thrusts deep, groaning as he climaxes.   
  
It’s better this time.   
For both the music video and sex, second time is the charm.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Mein Land**  
  
“Sunshine and pretty girls. This is the life.”  
  
He glares at the girl rubbing suncream into my back, making her flinch and skitter away. “There’s more to this vacation than pretty girls, Richard!”  
  
“All I hear is blah, blah, I don’t get laid.”  
  
Till fixes his gaze on me just as a fruit bowl is set in front of us. “Why don’t _you_ amend that, then?”   
  
Don’t bother answering. Peel a banana. Eat it _very_ slowly. Then I grab the surfboard, running towards the waves. Just as I’m done riding one, though, I tumble – expecting to plunge headfirst into the sand, but instead caught in Till’s strong arms as he swims us back.  
  
“Wouldn’t want you swept away,” he purrs. His hand brushes over my torso, making me squirm against his hard-on, pinching at a nipple.   
If that’s how he wants to play.  
  
And then the salt waves are enveloping us as we laugh and roll around, bodies speckled with sand. Till’s binoculars are tucked into his waist – I toss it back towards the shore and silence his playful protests with my mouth, tasting brine and the faint hint of pineapple. Lifeguarding can wait. I ought to show my gratitude.  
  
\-----  
 **  
Mein Teil**  
  
“Listen, your performance was incredible. But I can see it, Richard… was there… something bothering you?”  
  
“No. Leave me alone. I’m tired.”  
  
“It’s Sunday tomorrow. I’ll let you sleep all you want afterwards. Answer me.”  
  
“Later.”  
  
“No. _Now._ ”  
  
“Till, give the blankets back.”  
  
“You were _fighting yourself_ , Richard. That’s not normal. If that’s self-hatred or something… or because of me… I don’t want you to feel that way-“  
  
“And you were a fucking cannibal. And a _dog_. We all were. Drop it for god’s sake.”  
  
“But I worry. I love you, Richard.”  
  
“Jesus. Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m really just stressed and tired after all the recording we did. It’s been worth it, this is the best album we’ve ever done… but it’s the part of me I wanted to get rid of. Catharsis.”  
  
“Why couldn’t you have just said that?”  
  
“I don’t know. Eat me.”  
  
“… Seeing as you ask so nicely.”  
  
“I thought you were going to let me sleep!”  
  
“I will. I just didn’t specify when.”  
  
“ _Mein Gott,_ I swear… ahhh… Till - ah, fuck it all. I love you too. You bastard.”  
  
Richard should really learn to watch his mouth.  
But I adore him for it.  
  
\-----  
 **  
Pussy**  
  
“-Yes, I _do_ realize that this needs modeling, but care to spill why me instead of one of the extras?”  
  
“All working with Paul and Schneider.”  
  
“Your scene isn’t even for another _two days_.”  
  
But he’s still playing the part, posing seductively as he hands me my pipe. Even completes the ensemble with a simpering smile.   
  
“Give him a bust and we could just use _him_ instead,” a cameramen hollers, and we all laugh. Feather duster in hand, he actually sits down on my lap, crossing his legs and giving me a daring smile as the crew whoop and reach for the cameras.  
  
“Tilt left… bit more… that’s it,” thumbs up. Camera flash. In a stroke of inspiration I tug Richard’s hips closer so his backside is pressing right against my thighs. And what’s this? Silk panties? _Mmm._  
  
He finds this mortifying. “…’n… oo… ve a…. ner?” he hisses, too quiet to be heard over the noise.  
  
“ _Was?_ ”  
  
“ _Can you not have a boner?!_ ”  
  
The crew laughs bemusedly while Richard squirms on my lap, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I grin, already formulating plans to sneak out the outfit for tonight.  
  
Two more hours of shooting to go, my darling maid.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Ich Tu Dir Weh**  
  
Sometimes I wonder why we do this to ourselves. Music is an incredibly painful affair. I strum until my fingers bleed. He scribbles until his fingers bleed. But when we bandage them in the privacy of our bedroom I’m reminded that happiness, too, is the good kind of hurt.  
  
Let’s have some tea together, Till said. Meaning that he wanted to throw me onto the bed and screw me senseless.  
It’ll be a new flavor, he said. Meaning that he wanted to try new things.  
It might be sour, he said. Meaning that he wanted kinky.  
  
So much for actual tea. Always hated the stuff.  
  
So I’m standing here with red marks on my backside and bruises everywhere. His cum and mine mingling as they drip down my thighs. Pearls coating the polished wooden floor. I don’t think I like cuffs very much. At least Till is considerate enough to clean me up and tuck me in with a kiss. He never does anything that I don’t want and never refuses what I do want. Pain is worthwhile with him, keeps me addicted, coming back for more.  
  
Though I ought to thrash him for making ‘Harder!’ our safe word.  
  
Dick.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Amerika**  
  
I hate planes. I can’t sleep in them. To relax I go for a little walk around the corridor. Forty steps forward, forty steps back. Repeat. Sit down before people look at me strangely.  
  
I’m looking forward to seeing everyone. It’ll be the last time we’ll be able to meet up for about six months or so while we’re on hiatus.  
  
We need the break. I need the break. Creativity’s run dry.  
  
Touch down at Berlin. Collect my luggage. Call Richard. He doesn’t pick up. Frowning, I dial Olli instead and after a few cheerful greetings I ask him if he knows where he is.  
  
“He’s moving to America during the hiatus… he feels much better when he’s being productive, you know. He’s got a side project, Emigrate, he calls it-“  
  
Here the talk stops because I throw the phone to the ground. I can’t breathe. As I raise my head blearily I see another plane taking off and suddenly I think that’s Richard, flying far away from me.  
  
When’s the cabin pressure going to snap the cabin fever?  
  
 _Richard… Richard, why?_  
  
And then I realize that I don’t matter.   
I can only grin this one down, abandonment and all.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Haifisch  
**  
Well Till's officially an idiot. When he heard about Emigrate he flipped his shit.   
Accused me of band-wrecking. Of betraying him.   
Whether we were just friends-with-benefits all along.   
  
How the fuck do I answer that?   
  
He doesn’t want to let me in at first. “Five minutes,” he says finally, and then enters the bathroom without a word to shower. On the windowsill is Till’s phone, which lights up suddenly: I peer at it.  
  
Gert Hof. Till's editor. The only person who sees more of Till's poetic soul than me. Fuck Gert Hof. Out of pure spite I stab 'reject call', and delete the bastard from contacts. Then I toss the phone away and stare outside.  
  
"Why's the phone on the sofa?"   
  
I shouldn’t have done that. He soon puts two-and-two together.  
  
"Son of a _bitch!_ " he screams; clad only in a towel, he wildly points towards the door. "get _out. Out! You fucking traitor!_ "  
  
This object feels like a frisbee. Wonder if it flies like one?  
  
"... Please. That's my best plate."  
  
I comply. But I'll be back. I have things to tell him still.   
That I’m no traitor, for one, and that the goddamned plate is a goddamned ashtray.   
  
\-----  
 **  
Mann Gegen Mann**  
  
I guess I was kind of being a dick. I only came up with this to force him to face me. Ever since that day he’s refused to talk to me, treating this as if I’m the guilty one.  
  
Well, shooting’s wrapped, we’re alone and naked as the day we’re born. Naked and furious.  
  
“What’s the meaning of this?”  
  
“It means you’re immature for wanting to abandon us for others.”  
  
“I don’t! I’ve trying to tell you that for the past two months!”  
  
I force my mouth on his, shutting him up. Grasp his buttocks, push him onto the floor. I’m a beast. A filthy beast. _But I need him._  
  
“Don’t fucking leave,” I hiss in his ear as we grind against each other. I’m not entering him, though. “don’t you _dare – fucking – leave!_ ”  
  
“I’m not your slave,” he retorts. Pisses me off more that he’s right. I’m surprised that he’s not resisting. His eyes smoldering with lust, love - and yet full of scorn for my jealous possession of him. It’s a hot climax, one filled with empty desperation.  
  
I get dressed and leave. I need time to think.   
Preferably with the head that has a brain in it.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Mein Herz Brennt**  
 _  
You’ve blown it, Kruspe. You’ve completely and utterly blown it.  
  
He was the only person you ever felt safe with.  
When you felt that the world was too much, he hid you.  
Tucked you in at night. Fed you wonderful meals. Made you feel worth something._  
  
Without him music still comes to me, but what is even the point?   
I pressed ahead with Emigrate. I got what I wanted, and all of them are now out of the way from my arguments with Till. God knows I don’t want to lose anyone else. All I can do now is to sit and wait for him.  
  
Every second of every day without a word from Till is a test of my faith.   
Pick up the phone, Till. Either abandon me or love me. But don’t leave me with my heart slowly burning to ash. Not in this silence.   
  
Please.  
  
My escape routes: alcohol, cigarettes, small white pills. (Not all at once.)   
The guitar strings are loose, the metronome is broken, my studio is cold. I’d love to give it a wash down. Preferably with fire.   
  
… It’s awful quiet, Till.  
It’s quiet and it’s empty and it makes me miss you.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Rosenrot**  
  
And I come to the conclusion that yes, I _was_ a dick.  
  
I order red thorned roses and snip the thorns from them, arranging them into a bouquet. They prick my fingers and I bleed, and every time it happens I tell myself that that’s what I get for being an idiot.   
  
I haven’t been fair to Richard. I fuss all the time when my creativity is interrupted, but never once have I thought about his, despite the fact that he and I are both musicians. He gave up Emigrate for me even though he had every right not to.  
  
Clear the waters again. This is the beginning.  
  
He frowns at me before he notices my hand. “… What the hell have you been doing?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” I say simply. “I didn’t understand you, even after so long. I’ve thought about this for weeks now… I was wrong. I don’t expect you to take me back-“  
  
"Be quiet," and then just like that, we kiss, roses pressed tightly between us. He puts them in water until they all turn brown; his house smells of roses for weeks afterwards, and whenever I inhale the perfume, I’m reminded of our new start.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Keine Lust**  
  
Turkish Delight. Hazelnut. Champagne truffle.  
  
Till's getting better, but he's not fully back in shape yet. He's taken to comfort eating, gaining weight because of it. It's chocolate today, his right hand writing on paper, left hand delving and plucking out truffles.  
  
Gently telling him that he ought to cut it out, it's not good for him. But he craves the sweetness, I know. Sweetness without the calories and guilt. What am I going to do about it, he asks.   
  
So I roll him a cigarette with vanilla paper. He inhales and looks at me, surprised at the aroma, and I smile. This is just the first step. I want to share vices, share life, share bodies.  
  
Crush out the blunt. My lips trailing down his body, tasting his sweet musk and finally savoring the way he sighs and moans as I teasingly lick his most sensitive spot.  
  
 _Richard,_ he breathes huskily.  
  
 _Let me love you,_ I whisper. At first he is unsure, but soon he melds into me; he cries out in delicious delight as I fill him, our shared rhythm, scent and voice becoming the kind of music that cannot be written down.   
  
Cherry. Raspberry swirl. Vanilla cream.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Feuer Frei!**  
  
They are both comfortably middle-aged now. Sex is no longer a time for wild exploration but an expression of contentment, an affirmation of trust and love. It’s much, much better for it.  
  
“I sometimes miss the Mohawk,” Till says as they watch ‘XxX’, a film they participated in and haven’t seen in a while. “Vin Diesel loved the style. I’m too old for it now, though.”  
 _  
“Bang – bang! Bang – bang!... Feuer frei!”_  
  
“Look at those flamethrowers go,” Richard says, nibbling on a slice of cake. “and we can still try the Mohawks, you know, Till. You aren’t old. If you’re old, I am too.”  
  
“Can’t say I mind that awfully.”  
  
They smile at each other. Yes, they are older than before, they aren’t quite as sprightly as they used to be, but they aren’t beyond youthful delights such as curling up at night with a movie and snacks.  
  
“And – _blam!_ There he goes. Dead. Right, no more Till Lindemann from now on, best part’s over… say, you want to watch ‘Vincent’?”  
  
“What, just to see me?”  
  
“Mmm. And the part where you dive-bomb that cat. But mostly you and the glasses.”  
  
All is good with the world. They are content.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Ich Will**  
  
“What do you want most in the world, Till?”  
  
I want… I want a lot of things. We all do.  
  
As you nuzzle into me, our naked bodies fitting together perfectly, I wonder how to answer your question. Do I want more fame? Not really. No more wealth. I’d like time, lots of it, but that would be meaningless without you with me.  
  
I want you. But that’s not a valid answer. I already have you. I’m grateful, really. We are no longer young; my leg hurts more now, and sensation in your left hand is dulling.  
  
You’ve changed me for good. Years have passed since I saw you in that bar, naïve, cheeky and full of spirit. Many things have happened.   
  
I feel like it’s time now, to face my fears. On top of _Großglockner_ , my father lies under a cross. The man who told me to show him a woman I would marry, or else leave forever. I chose the latter.  
  
I’ll face him now. I want that. I’ll take you with me. You’re admittedly not a woman, but the rest applies.  
  
When we return from this trip, Richard…  
  
May I bind you to me with a ring?  
  
\-----  
  
 **Sonne**  
  
The snowstorm is so strong that I can barely keep my eyes open. “We’ll have to break,” I shout back at him. We’re experienced climbers but this is not a condition that we can manage in.  
  
“There’s a crevasse there.”  
  
He grasps my hand tight, tighter than he has usually done, hurling me up to safety. He looks nervous. I don’t want him to be nervous. To ease his mind I kiss the back of his gloved hand before I, too, attempt to hurl him up.  
  
“Careful! The rocks are slippery! I-“  
  
And then his bad leg slips and takes him with it, and along with it my happiness. I scream, the sound lost in the howl of the storm, seeing him crash on the snowy rocks beneath me; he falls on his back, facing me straight up, and I know whether dead or alive that image will haunt me forever.  
  
“Oh God, Till, Till, _no_ ,” I cry out. His eyes open and for a moment I am elated, but then his face turns white and I see that his leg’s bending at an angle that shouldn’t be.  
  
He is my sun, my moon, my stars. And he has fallen.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Ohne Dich**  
  
There’s a base camp within walking distance, Richard says, but I’m beyond walking. I’m too weak. This is how it ends.  
  
“Don’t _say_ that.”  
  
My leg is shattered. I should have known when that ached before the climb, warning me that this was a bad idea. So I do the only thing that I can do and ask him to take me.  
  
“Till…”  
  
“Say nothing,” I whisper. For the first time, I don’t care for words. He obliges and strips me and himself naked, but hesitates as he looks down.   
  
“I… I don’t…”  
  
Can’t say I care much for hand lotion as lube. But then… lotion is what we used the first time, after all. There’s a certain poetic quality to ending on the note you began, and Richard knows it too. And he starts crying, even as he takes me, his hot tears dripping onto my chest. This must be torture for him.   
  
The music of skin against skin ringing in the tent. Faster, I beg. Pressure building for the last time, more intense than ever, a burning warmth that soon makes my back arch and cry out as I see him and I engulfed in white-  
  
-and then it’s over. I hold him. Kiss his lips. Eyes. Forehead. Everywhere I can reach. Cover him with my coat.  
  
"… What now?" Richard asks, nuzzling into my bare chest. I don't tell him that I can barely see him now, that now the heat of our final union is fading into nothing, my life fading with it. In the morning I will be gone.   
  
I'm sorry to leave you like this, Richard. Take my heat, it'll help you through the night. I'm sorry that this is all I can do.  
  
"We... stay like this... a little longer."  
  
I love you.   
  
\-----  
 **  
Mein Herz Brennt (Eugenio Recuenco Ver.)**  
  
The rescuers eventually find them, two men curled together in the ice, one distinctly unclothed and locked in the embrace of the other.  
  
The taller man doesn't respond to them; when they hold a mirror to his mouth, it doesn't mist over. They were too late. The other, the one wearing almost nothing at all, does open his eyes, though they are distinctly unfocused.   
  
They ask him his name. He says nothing, and sinks back down to lie on the taller man's chest. One of the rescuers, moved by pity, quickly gestures for a thick blanket and a first aid kit; he wraps the man with it tightly and holds him, asking him what happened, wanting to get him to say something.  
  
"Give it to Till, I'll take what's left," is the only thing he says.  
  
Soon the first aid kit is brought out, a syringe filled with morphine, and they hold the man's left arm still and stab him with the needle. His eyes widen, then clench shut as he cries out; it's not a cry of pain, but of pure despair as warmth returns to him and the horrible truth finally sinks in.  
  
" _Why did you save me?_ " Richard wails even as the crew carry him and Till's body to the helicopter. "why? _Why?_ "  
  
In those eternal ten minutes, Richard is like a lost child. The rescuer from earlier silently commands that Till's body be laid out so that his head is resting on the guitarist's lap; he immediately pulls the singer close, stroking and weeping over his frozen cheeks, one final pieta for the man he so loved.   
  
He is still clinging desperately to Till when the morphine finally kicks in, sending him - however briefly - back into a dream that was their entire life together.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Seemann**  
  
The funeral is quiet. The band part ways silently afterwards, leaving a legend both in the hearts of their fans and in the form of ashes in an urn in Richard’s arms.  
  
Till loved the ocean. So that’s where he retires to, in a cottage on a cliff by the beach. He’s over most of the grief now, but still can’t quite bear to let his love go.  
  
One day, he thinks. Just not now.  
  
But he cannot imprison Till forever. So one day, he climbs down the cliff with the urn. It takes a while as he is no longer young.   
  
As he stands and watches the vast expanse laid out in front of him, for a moment or two he thinks he sees a man in a small boat drifting along the waves; but he blinks and the illusion is gone. It’s a sign, he’s sure, and opening the urn, he pours the ashes into the sea, sinking in a fine white caress around his feet before being swept away. Some of it clings to his palm; he looks for a long moment, knowing that Till is holding his hand for the last time, before washing them and finally letting him go.  
  
An old melody rises to his lips, and in the quiet sunset he murmurs their song of longing together, his voice carrying through the salt breeze as he imagines Till cooing softly in his ear: _Go to sleep, meine Liebe, you're sad now but it'll be better in the morning, I promise_. Richard gazes out into the ocean, just as beautifully green as Till's eyes were, and as a tear rolls down his cheek he smiles and imagines that perhaps - beyond the orange horizon - there will be someone waiting for him at the end.

**Author's Note:**

> As you all know by now, I am a ridiculously verbose writer. I write huge amounts. 9000 words add up to a normal length oneshot for me. I’ve never really done drabbles or flash fiction before, not properly at least. I hate cutting down on words because it makes me feel weird and I keep fussing over as to if I’m cutting the right things. A nightmare. So I’ve never been able to keep to the 100-word, 200-word, or even a 1000-word limit.
> 
> I decided to try it for real this time. 200 words to start with. 100 words is still too challenging for me, I admire everyone who pulls that off. One day I’ll get to that level. But I’ve spent eight years writing now and I value laconicity to the max, it’s something that just had to be done. Although Ohne Dich and Seemann I lied a bit on, these are exactly 300 words. So my challenge was not entirely successful. Storyline over word count took over there.
> 
> UPDATE (01/01/2013): Well. I did say every Rammstein video. Every single time a new video for Rammstein comes out, Montage is now going to get an update. That is a promise. Two drabbles for Mein Herz Brennt added.
> 
> UPDATE: (02/04/2013): Turns out there was an alternate MHB video, that of Eugenio Recuenco's! Added that one.
> 
> Some notes:  
>  **Links 2, 3, 4** \- 'Ossies' - East Germans, 'Wessies' - West Germans. Preferably not used in polite company.  
>  **Du Riechst So Gut (1998)** \- Inspired a bit by [this](http://fav.me/d319qd2)  
>  **Pussy** \- I promised myself I would never write anything for this video but [this](http://fav.me/d4vwon5) was too tempting NO JUDGE ME >.>  
>  **Keine Lust** \- First drabble written. Think it's one of the best ones. The flavours on top indicate chocolate. The flavours on the bottom indicate lube. :I  
>  **Feuer Frei!** \- Song performed as opener of XxX. [Till in 'Vincent' and cat divebombing](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hboi5rYgpd8)  
>  **Everything after that** \- Because it's not like my fics if Till doesn't die pointlessly. DDDD:
> 
> If I were younger I might have ended Silence on this kind of note, but I chose not to. Here though, I did. Seeing as this was a first time experiment and different to all I’ve done so far, I request critique on this. I hope my drabbles were okay.
> 
> And so I keep learning.


End file.
